Storm Child E-Book

Ele Fountain

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Children's Books
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 233

Beschreibung

'A beautifully written page-turner of a novel', Sarah Crossan, Carnegie Medal-winning author of One Maya Penrose has saltwater running in her veins. She's the best surfer for miles, living a carefree life with her fisherman dad and baker mum. But money is running out, and businessmen are after their land. When her dad loses his fishing boat in a terrible storm, her parents decide to start over, travelling to the other side of the world, where they can teach sailing and diving and Maya can be home-schooled. But Maya will soon discover that life on a tropical island isn't always paradise, and that she must learn from every storm that comes into her life – no matter how big, or how destructive.

Leseprobe

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For Judy and Martin

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‘Between the wish and the thing, the world lies waiting.’

cormac mccarthyAll the Pretty Horses

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Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphPART 1WipeoutFriendsSurfBoardHomeFishColdCalmStormMissingWaitFlapjackGuiltChipsLuckDreamLeaveStellarFlightPART 2FanTreeBikeKalaniDistanceTouristOfferingWipeout 2PeaceLonelyFlotsamShareDriftingSailMarshmallowBoredThrillStorm 2Missing 2NavigatorLuck 2TangleTruthHiddenHeartFriends 2ArriveHomeAbout the AuthorCopyright

11

PART 112

13

Wipeout

“Left, left! Move!”

Wind whips the words from my lips, blasting them out to sea.

I paddle faster, shoulders burning. Icy water swells beneath me, surging forwards. The surge begins to curl, feathering into a foam-crested giant.

I grab the rails of my board and push up, aware of something orange moving fast in the corner of my vision.

“Maya! NO!” someone shouts.

There is a dull thud. The board lurches, throwing me sideways into the foam. I feel a tug on my ankle as the leash snaps. Detached from my board, there is nothing to pull me to the surface, or prevent me from being knocked out by it. I throw my arms over my head. The wave pins me down, churning back and forth until I don’t know which way is up. My foot touches something soft. I try 14to propel myself above water, but the current drags me backwards, tugging my legs from beneath me.

One thought runs through my head: so stupid, so stupid.

My eyes sting. I feel the strength ebb from my limbs. I need air.

Fear sharpens the edges of my consciousness. I’ve never been under this long. A double hold-down. Waves gather and churn without pause, without care. Stupid.

A hand clamps around my arm, fingers pressing into my flesh, dragging me from the pressure of the swell.

“Maya?!”

I gulp salty air.

I’m gliding through choppy foam into shallow water. My heels bump against the sand.

“Hey,” I croak. “Stop.”

I struggle to twist free from the arm hooked firmly around my neck.

“Maya? You’re OK?”

I scramble to my feet. A boy with eyes the colour of the sea is frowning at me. Wet sand drips from his forehead.

“Where’s my board, you total barney?” I gasp, hoping he won’t notice that I’m shaking.

Waves nudge the back of my legs. I can’t feel my feet—they’re numb.

He frowns a heartbeat longer.15

“Come on. You’re turning blue.” He offers his arm.

I rest my hands on my hips. I don’t need someone to cling to. “I need my board, Tom,” I mutter.

He shakes his head and wades through the shallows towards two sleek wetsuited figures.

“Kai has your board,” he calls, the words gusting past within fine sea spray.

“Kai took me out?”

Before he can reply, the white nose of my longboard bobs into view, followed by Kai.

“Maya, I’m sorry!”

He’s gripping one board under his right arm, nudging mine through the water with his foot. On the shoulder of his brand-new wetsuit is a zigzag. A neon-orangezigzag.

“That was A-star bad. Really, really bad. I—”

“Swear never to surf again?”

He hangs his head.

“At least, not until you can actually steer?”

“I thought I was going to hit you.”

“You did hit me!”

“I mean—I shouldn’t have gone out. You said it was gnarly. Maya!”

“What?”

“Your lips are purple. Come on.” He starts running through the surf.

I pick up my board to follow, but as my fingers grip the rail, they sink into a dip that wasn’t there before.16

I tip the board sideways and gasp. There’s a crack, as long as my hand.

Most of my friends have a few boards in their quiver. Maybe three or four. Not me. I have one.

Had one.

17

Friends

“Biscuits are the key to world peace.”

“Says—?”

“Flo. But she also said that carrot cake counts as one of your five a day.”

“And that eating bread sticks is harmful to trees.”

“I was joking, guys. But thanks, Aly, thanks, Kai. Good to know you were paying attention. Warmed up yet, Maya?”

“Much better,” I lie. I’m wearing all myclothes and some of Flo’s, including her beanie hat and waterproof, but I’m still shivering.

The wind swirls pencil-grey clouds across a pale sky, plucking at the waves below, until solid peaks break into frothy spray.

We huddle in a line beneath the cliff, clutching warm plastic mugs. We’ve been friends for so long, I can’t remember what brought the five of us together—school 18or surfing, or resilience to extreme cold. Always helpful if you want to develop your board skills along this coast outside the summer months.

I lower a ginger biscuit into my mug.

“Why does hot chocolate taste so much better when you make it, Flo?”

Flo taps the side of her nose. “Secret ingredient,” she smiles.

“You put snot in it?” says Kai.

Flo rolls her eyes. “If you hit my board the way you wiped out Maya’s, I would totally put snot in your hot chocolate.”

Tom drains his cup and passes it to Flo. He’s barely spoken since we sat down, watching the surf instead. I didn’t apologize for earlier. I should.

“What will you do about your board?” Tom glances at Kai, before looking at me.

“Not sure.” I concentrate on swirling a few powdery cocoa bubbles into the milk.

It wasn’t really my board, anyway. It belonged to Dad until last week. On my fourteenth birthday, he gave it to me. I can’t tell him it’s broken already.

“You could just use a different one until it’s fixed,” says Kai.

I nod.

Tom reaches for his trainers. “I’m gonna head.”

“Already?” asks Kai.19

“I said I’d be home before dark.”

“Me too.” I brush sand from my legs.

“Thanks for sharing your beach with us, Lady Penrose,” says Kai.

“Happy to share the sand with you. Less sure about the water—at least until you learn to control that shortboard.”

“Ma’am.”

I scramble up the stony path behind Tom, my board grazing tussocks of sea-sedge. I’m less nimble than usual, or he is walking faster.

The track zigzags steeply through rugged dark rock that softens to a smooth slope, carpeted with tufty grass and heather.

Tom is waiting on the clifftop, wind whipping at his hair.

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

“Tell who, what?” I reply, although I know exactly who—and what.

Tom shakes his head.

“I didn’t want to make him feel even worse.”

“Perhaps it’s time Kai realized that not everyone can afford to buy a brand-new kit when it breaks.”

“I’ve got my old softboard. She never let me down.”

“You’re a brilliant surfer, Maya. You need something better than your softboard.”

“Maybe I can fix it. You know I’m pretty good at fixing things.” I smile, hoping that he might too. “Hey, 20I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t say thanks for hauling me out of that washing machine. I was embarrassed about wiping out.”

“No worries. You didn’t exactly wipeout. You were takenout. You’d have done the same for me. I really thought—” He looks over my shoulder, out to sea. “I thought for a moment that you weren’t coming back up.”

“I’m a Penrose. We have salt water running through our veins.”

“And bury your heads in the sand.”

“Hey! Uncalled for.” I scowl.

“You’re right, sorry,” he nods. “See you on Monday.” He weaves along the coast path, guiding his board between stumpy heather bushes.

My path lies the other way, towards a low stone building, nestled behind two conifers pushed sideways by relentless gales. Penrose Hall, resting on Penrose Head, over Penrose Bay—in case you were in any doubt about whose ancestors are a big deal on this lump of windswept rock.

Lights twinkle in the downstairs windows. Day has turned to dusk. I head towards the light, Tom’s words rippling through my head. Ithoughtforamomentthatyouweren’tcomingbackup.

For a moment, neither did I.

21

Surf

The front door clicks shut with the muffled effort of someone trying hard to be quiet.

Voices murmur.

Dad’s back late, which could be very good, or very bad.

I reach for my alarm clock and pain shoots along my shoulder. My ribs are sore. There is a dull throb where the mattress touches my thigh. I don’t remember hurting myself, but when the sea rolls you, it’s hard to notice. All you think of is escape.

I tuck my arm beneath the warm covers. I don’t need to know the time.

I close my eyes, listening to the wind whisper through the trees, lifting loose roof tiles with a gentle tap-tap. Beyond the wind is a deeper, rhythmic swoosh of waves rolling on the beach.

An image of Dad’s board floats into my head. The crack, longer than my hand. It will soak up water like a 22sponge you can never squeeze dry. I can’t surf without fixing it. I can’t fix it without Dad.

He’s the one who taught me to surf. He said if I was old enough to run, I was old enough to surf. He and Mum didn’t quite see eye to eye on that. I was two, so she had a point. He waited patiently, then when I was four, took me out in the ankle slappers—waves too small to surf, but good for balance. Once I’d mastered the pop up, I was hooked. Parents would stare at the tiny kid paddling out on a six-foot board, but longboards are easier to control. It’s shortboards that cause most harm, especially if you buy one before you’re ready. Like Kai.

I grew out of my softboard a long time ago, but good surfboards cost a lot of money. We might own the headland, but you can’t pay for things with grass and rocks. So Dad gave me his board. He’d looked after it for twenty years. Waxing it, cleaning it.

Its’s been mine for ten days.

In the morning, I’ll have to tell him that it’s broken.

23

Board

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

Dad shakes his head, smiling softly for my benefit. His hair is stiff with sea salt, dusky shadows lurk beneath his eyes.

Mum places a chipped mug on the table in front of him.

“Tea!” she declares, as if there’s been a shortage.

But tea is one thing we have plenty of.

“Nothing’s bad, isn’t it?” I say, remembering that last month was patchy, and the one before.

“Things will pick up,” Mum says gently. “Lobster season is starting, and the weather will improve.”

“The lobster pots were empty, every single one.” Dad sighs.

“You need some rest. You shouldn’t take the boat out when you’re exhausted. It’s not safe. Anyway, it’s Sunday and blowing a Force 8.” 24

The roof tiles rattle in agreement, as water drips idly from the ceiling near the porch, into a carefully positioned bucket.

I sidestep the bucket on my way to the fridge. Tucked beneath a mackerel-shaped magnet are several postcards of blue sky and palm trees. At the centre of each image, floating on turquoise sea, is a strange-looking wooden canoe with masts and sails.

I smile. Right now, the notion of warm sea and sunshine seems bizarre, but Dad’s younger brother, my uncle Will, sends a new card from exotic locations every few months. Mum puts them in the dresser drawer. Dad takes them back out and fixes them to the fridge.

“How was the surf yesterday?” he asks. I pause, my hand resting on a milk bottle. “The wind looked good—offshore? Quite a swell.”

“Big waves, yeah,” I reply.

He watches as I wander back to the table.

“Tom there?”

“Everyone.” I try to smile, but Dad reads me like the weather—and he knows if it’s going to rain before the clouds do. “Dad, I dinged your board.”

“Maya!” Mum gasps.

“It’s not my board now,” Dad says calmly. “I’m sorry that you dinged your board though. What happened?”

I hesitate before answering. I don’t want to blame Kai—or lie.25

“It’s not important,” Dad cuts in, still watching me. “You’re OK. That’s what matters. Is it bad? Can we fix it?”

I swallow. “I’m not sure. There’s a crack in the resin.”

He nods. “Mum’s the boat repair expert. Same skills for a board. Let’s look at it together.”

“After breakfast,” adds Mum.

I eat quickly, while Mum and Dad discuss fixing the roof and fixing the leak. Our house may be huge, but the parts which are weatherproof diminish daily.

I rinse out my bowl—inspired by the house, the dishwasher has given up—then pull on my boots. Wind tugs at the front door, scattering icy raindrops across the mat, while Dad rummages in the kitchen dresser.

He waves a silvery object in the air.

“C’mon then!”

We sprint across the puddle-filled yard to the old stable. It smells of hay, even though no horses have slept here for decades. Two of the old stalls are used as storage for Mum’s baking business. The others have been knocked together to make a larger space, in the centre of which, balanced on an old trestle table, is Dad’s surfboard. My surfboard. It looks like a patient awaiting an operation, which I suppose it is.

He grasps the rails, running his hands along both edges. When his fingertips reach the crack, he kneels down for a closer look, pulling the silvery object from 26his pocket—a small torch. He shines its yellow light into the crevice.

“What do you think?” He passes the torch to Mum.

“It’s a pretty wide fracture and the core beneath looks brittle. I can fix it, but I don’t think the patch will last. The core is so old, it’s likely to fracture again with another knock.”

Dad turns to me. “I’m sorry, kid. It seems this old girl’s had it. We’ll have to get you a new one.” Mum glances at him. “Soon. When we can,” he adds.

“No worries, Dad, I’m pretty attached to my softie.” I nod towards the enormous softboard, propped against the wall.

Dad shakes his head. “They’re great for learning, but you need something smaller. You can’t manoeuvre a softboard for 360s and aerials.”

“Well, no one’s going on the water today,” says Mum, glancing at Dad again. “If my maths is correct, that means two helpers—one for whisking, one for icing.” Dad rubs a hand across his eyes. “Although I might let the fisherman go to bed, since he hasn’t slept for five nights in a row.”

“I can do both.” I give Mum two thumbs up.

“Chocolate fudge cake, brownies and fifty iced cupcakes.”

“Oh good. I was worried there might not be much to do.”27

“At least you get to sample the wares,” she smiles. “Quality control.”

Mum’s baking business doesn’t make a lot of money, but when there are no fish for Dad to catch, it’s all we have until the sailing season starts. Then, Mum’s the instructor everyone wants to book. During summer and autumn she teaches sailing all day, and bakes in the evening. Dad’s out fishing early and back late. I’m usually rattling around our big old house on my own after school—unless the surf’s good, of course.

At least we’re never short of brownies. But you can’t fix a roof or mend a surfboard with brownies.

28

Home

I trail my hand in the warm turquoise sea, legs stretched out along the bottom of the wooden canoe-boat. A low sound, like a ship’s horn, drifts across the waves. The horn blasts again.

“Maya?” I blink. “Earth to Maya.”

I turn my head. Flo’s face is centimetres from my own. At the edge of my vision, I notice that she is also waving her hands.

“Did you hear the bell?” she asks. “The loud noise letting people know that school is over for the day?”

“Sorry,” I smile. “I was in a boat.”

“Don’t you spend enough time on the water in the real world?”

“The sun was shining. This sea was warm.”

“The sun is shining here, but the wind’s dead, so I was thinking beach bonfire?”29

“Yes!” I scrape my chair backwards, bundling books into my backpack. “Meet you there in thirty minutes?”

“Sure. I’ll message the others.”

I jog along the coast path. Taking the road is faster but seems further. My sandy trail snakes, pale yellow, along the curve of the headland towards a cluster of trees. The roof of Penrose House edges into view. Despite its size, the walls of the building melt into their surroundings. Made of the same rock. Pummelled by the same wind.

The jeep isn’t in the drive, so Dad must be out fishing.

I open the front door, stepping into a warm, buttery-smelling hall.

“Hi, Mum!” I shout towards the kitchen.

“Orange cake!” she calls.

“That must be your other daughter,” I say, leaning my head round the kitchen door.

She glances up smiling.

Mixing bowls and cake tins are piled at one end of the long kitchen table. At the other, Mum is beating something in a bowl. Her cheeks are flushed, although one of them is lightly dusted with flour.

“Mmm, that smells good—and orangey.”

“Hopefully tastes even better. Wedding cake. My first one. It’s for Jane’s daughter, so no pressure.”

“Who’s Jane?” I ask, feeling as if I should probably know.30

“Owns one of the cafés that stocks my cakes and bakes. Most of my cakes and bakes, actually.”

“Oh yes, Jane,” I say vaguely. “More importantly, is it OK if I take some marshmallows?”

“Sure, if we have any. Check in there.” She points to the corner cupboard with her spoon.

I dump my bag near the stairs and run up to get changed. Homework can wait.

I stuff matches and the last packet of marshmallows into a canvas bag then pull on my boots.

“See you in a bit!”

“Dad might be late,” she calls as the door clicks shut.

A fiery glow softens the horizon, at odds with the cold air prickling my cheeks. Stray sprigs of heather litter the path, torn loose by yesterday’s wind. I gather them up for kindling then head towards the cliff path. Near the bottom is a natural rock shelf, where I rest my bag and a bundle of heather, leaving my hands free to collect driftwood. I scrape a shallow pit in the sand, lining it with flat stones, a layer of kindling and a driftwood teepee to catch the first flames.

Footsteps crunch along the path above.

Seconds later, Aly throws her coat down nearby.

“Nice work, Firestarter! I’ll get more wood.”

She swishes across the sand to find it.

“Hey.” It’s Flo’s voice. I stop poking the fire and look up. “Excellent flames! Here’s your reward.” She passes 31me a flask, her long blonde hair glowing auburn in the firelight. “Hot chocolate.”

“And I’ve brought myself,” adds Kai, appearing by her side. “Special present.”

“Excellent, just what this beach was missing. Where’s Tom?”

“Here.” He jumps down from the path. “As everyone seems to be offering gifts—” He passes me an envelope. “You can look later.”

There is a slight twinkle in his blue-grey eyes, or possibly he’s squinting in the sunset. I can’t tell.

As the first star glimmers in a dusky cloudless sky, I move closer to the fire, holding my hands up to catch the warmth.

“So what do you think your folks will decide to do?” says Kai.

“About what?” I ask.

“About Penrose, about the land.”

I stare at him blankly. Shadows flicker across his face making it hard to figure out his expression.

“Perhaps she doesn’t know,” says Aly quietly, although obviously in earshot.

“Weonly know because Kai told us,” replies Flo.

“Told you what? Guys, will someone please share what it is that you know?”

“My dad works for the council,” says Kai.

“We allknow that,” I say.32

“Someone he works with knows that I’m friends with you.”

I rest my hand on my forehead in mock despair. “And…”

“He works in the planning authority department. Apparently someone wants to buy your house.”

“OK… Is that so unusual?” I ask. “It’s a nice house,” I add, trying not to think about the peeling paint and the damp patches.

“They don’t just want to buy your house. They want to buy your house and your land, and this beach, and develop the headland in a sympatheticandenvironmentallyfriendlyway.”

I shake my head, confused.

“He means,” adds Flo, “they want to build houses on your land, and they’re willing to pay your parents a lot of money to do so.”

I frown. “But they’d never get permission from the council, would they? Isn’t the land protected?”

“It depends on who you talk to,” says Kai.

“Or who you know,” says Flo darkly, spearing a marshmallow with her stick.

I turn mine slowly above the embers, until the surface bubbles.

“So will they make an offer to my parents? How does it work?”

I try to sound concerned, but Dad would never sell Penrose. It’s been in his family for generations. My 33family. Yet for some reason there’s a flutter in my stomach.

Kai hesitates before answering.

“They have made an offer. They’re waiting for an answer.”

34

Fish

I should be in bed, but I want to see Dad. He’s late again. Maybe there’s no point in staying up. He might be ages, but I want to ask about the offer for Penrose. I’m not worried, just curious. Curious about why he and Mum said nothing. I close my book then scoop my school uniform and canvas bag from the middle of the bedroom floor. I remember Tom’s envelope. It’s still in the bag, buried beneath what’s left of the marshmallows. Lookatitlater, he said. Well, I guess that’s now.

I tear open the back and pull out a letter. Only it’s not a letter, it’s an entry form—for the National Surfing Championships. Why has he given me this? I scan the details. It doesn’t cost a huge amount. I would have three months to prepare. But there’s a problem. Tom must have noticed it too. You are allowed to compete on a shortboard or longboard. No one will be competing on a softboard, but that’s all I have.35

The front door creaks open. Dad’s home.

I hurry downstairs, remembering too late that I’m barefoot. Downstairs the floors are stone, worn smooth by centuries of feet passing—like sea-glass polished by the waves. Smooth, and very, very cold.

Mum and Dad are chatting in low voices by the door, while Dad peels away layers of wet-weather gear. As I appear, they fall silent.

“What’s that?” Dad nods towards my hand. I realize I’m still clutching the entry form.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“It’s from Tom.”

Dad turns to Mum. “Love letter,” he winks. “I’m pleased the old-fashioned approach is still going strong. I thought everything was virtual these days.”

“It’s not a love letter.” Annoyingly, I feel my cheeks begin to glow. Dad smiles at me, eyebrows raised. “It’s—” I hesitate. “It’s an entry form. For the National Surfing Championships.”

The smile remains on his lips but fades from around his eyes.

“When is it?”

“In a few months.”

“May I see?” I pass the form to his outstretched hand.

His eyes flick across the page. He nods slowly. “We need to get you a new board, don’t we? Now.”36

“Let’s talk while you eat.” Mum bustles him towards the kitchen.

We had dinner ages ago, but the smell of food makes my stomach rumble.

“There are lemon cupcakes going spare if you’re hungry, Maya. Jane isn’t going to need as many as usual.”

She points to a large Tupperware. Mum’s normally careful about quantities. She says margins are the difference between profit and loss.

“Jane’s missing out,” I mumble, through zesty icing.

“Actually,” Mum sighs, “she’s decided to reduce the area in her shop for baked goods, and stock deli items instead. They make more money.”

“Even though you charge her far less than you should, anyway?” says Dad, frowning.

“I guess she has margins too. Best to bake things and sell them ourselves, but for that we’d need our own café.”

“So, we’ll just have to tighten our belts a little,” says Dad flatly—because the Penrose belts are on their tightest notches already.

He rubs his forehead with his fingertips. “I think I’ll ask Ted if he’ll stay out overnight tomorrow. Go further from shore.”

Ted has fished with Dad since the very beginning, back when Dad owned three large boats—a fleet. They’d land a huge catch every week—more than enough to live 37on. Then the laws changed. Local fishermen had to share the waters they’d fished for generations with many more boats and were only allowed to catch a certain amount. They ended up throwing a lot back in the sea. Big boats didn’t make big money any more. Dad sold his fleet and bought LadyPeg. Most of the younger crew left, but Ted stayed. He liked Dad’s plan to fish sustainably, to make sure there are some left for future generations, but it might be too late already. LadyPeghasn’t landed a huge catch for ages. Or even a small catch.

“Isn’t it getting windy tomorrow? I checked the surf report. It says there’s a storm on the way.”

“Not until Thursday. We’ll be safely back in harbour by then,” says Dad.

“Why not wait until it’s passed? Head out on Friday.” Mum frowns.

“I’ve heard there’s hake. Lots of it. We’ll take the gill net. Could be a brilliant catch and we certainly need one. Friday might be too late.”

When Dad says late, I glance at the clock.

“I’m heading up to bed.” I yawn.

“See you when I’m back,” says Dad. “Don’t forget your entry form.” He points to a pile of papers on the dresser. “Think about which box you want to tick—longboard or shortboard. Then we’ll go shopping.” He smiles. “Lady Peg’s luck is about to change. It must,” he adds quietly to himself, but not so quietly that I don’t hear.38

I feel a small buzz of excitement. An hour ago, the entry form seemed pointless, but perhaps I was wrong. I place it on my desk and notice a second piece of paper beneath. Strange I didn’t spot it before. I lift the top page to see what I’ve missed. The words Final Demand are printed in red letters near the top. I stare at them, frozen. It has nothing to do with surfing. I’ve scooped up a bill from the dresser pile. A bill that says we have fourteen days to pay or risk court action. We’re not just short of money. We’re in debt.

I can’t leave a final demand in my room for Mum and Dad to find. I have to put it back on the dresser. At the top of the stairs, I pause. Dad’s in the hall, on the phone to Ted. There’s no way past without him seeing.

“It could be our catch of the season,” he says, “what we’ve been waiting for.”